


Happy as Fish and Gorgeous as Geese

by heartofthesunrise



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, narry meltdown 2k19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 22:12:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19385629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofthesunrise/pseuds/heartofthesunrise
Summary: Niall's not an idiot. He knows carrying a torch is an easy way to burn your hands.





	Happy as Fish and Gorgeous as Geese

**Author's Note:**

> Niall and Harry met up at the Eagles concert and I got emo about it so here's this. Unbetaed so blame me lol

It doesn’t bother Niall when his texts go unanswered, because nothing bothers Niall. 

That’s, like, his whole  _ thing.  _

It doesn’t even bother him when he scrolls back through the texts from the last few months and nearly all of them are blue bubbles, punctuated by Harry’s one- or two-word replies in grey. That’s just Harry, that’s just… And it’s not like he’s blowing up Harry’s phone, or anything. Weeks go by where Niall doesn’t think of him. But when he sees something that reminds him of Harry - a first pressing of  _ Sticky Fingers  _ with a still-functioning zipper, a yellow Furby in a thrift shop window, that sort of thing - he just… Sends it along. 

As a show of good faith, in their ostensible friendship. 

It doesn’t bother him, though, when Harry doesn’t reply. It’s not a big deal. 

So when Niall’s sitting in the VIP section of the audience and hears Stevie Fucking Nicks say that Harry’s there, that he’s backstage with his mother, that he’s her  _ little muse…  _ That’s also fine. It’s not like he’d sent Harry two tactful texts - one last week, asking if Harry was planning on going to the concert, and one this afternoon, a cheerful,  _ maybe i’ll run into you ! -  _ and expected anything else. 

It doesn’t bother Niall when Harry goes ghost on him because it’s not Harry’s fault when Niall has failed to calibrate his expectations correctly. It’s a Niall problem. He knows better. 

He does spot Harry from far away that evening, the pale gleam of his forehead from across the underground car park. He hasn’t seen Harry in months, but one flash of him and Niall feels the thread in him that connects him to the other lads, the group, go taut. 

“You ready?” Basil asks from the driver’s seat, and Niall nods and leans his head against the tinted window and watches Harry slip from view as they pull out into the queue of cars waiting to exit. 

He’s not stupid. He knows carrying a torch is an easy way to burn your hands. 

The show was wonderful, is the thing. So much so that he can’t keep it in, wants to yell about it to anyone who’ll listen. He calls his mother and tells her all about it. He props his phone up next to the piano and records his best attempt at “Dreams.” He writes a notes app thing and impulsively tags Stevie in it, and after it posts he immediately wants to take it down because it seems like too much, but it’s already been seen, and it’d be more drama than it’s worth to delete it. 

“You’re losing it,” Bird tells him over drinks when Niall can’t make himself shut up about it. “Glad you had fun, though.” 

The thing is, the one person he’d really like to talk to right now - who would understand all his feelings intuitively, because he had, at one point at least, felt the same - is Harry, and even though it doesn’t bother him, the idea of opening up that text thread and sending out another flare into the darkness and getting no answer makes him want to dunk his phone into the full pint of beer he’s just been handed. 

Niall gets raucously drunk and doesn’t send any texts he doesn’t mean to, because he’s learned how to behave himself. 

If he’s a little bit short with the Uber driver who gets him home, well… He tips extra, and calls it a wash. 

-

Niall is experimenting with not texting Harry first. He’s been doing it for two days and it only seems to make the problem worse: he thinks about doing it all the time now. His phone, facedown on the table, vibrates pathetically towards him and he’s immediately flipping it over hoping to see Harry’s circular icon, an old-ish selfie Harry’d taken with Niall’s phone when they were both drunk in Brazil once. Cloud storage has carried it over to every phone Niall’s had since then, a comforting blur of brown hair and green eyes under a garland of string lights. 

Instead it’s always somebody who needs something from him - one of his golfers, or one of Bill’s stable of interchangeable assistants trying to schedule a fitting for an upcoming photoshoot, or… The list is endless. It goes on as far as forever goes, and then just beyond that is Harry, needing and wanting nothing from him. He probably hasn’t even noticed Niall’s not been in touch. 

And why should he? It’s been two days. 

And it’s not even a big deal, really. 

By the fourth day Niall is starting to settle back into himself. He doesn’t even text Harry that much when he’s not  _ actively not texting Harry.  _ And he’s got a whole crew, all his friends and all, out with him for another good show. 

He’s had both these concerts in his iCal for months, looking forward to going back to a stadium he knows so well, seeing two of the bands he’s loved the longest. 

He shouldn’t let Harry get in the way of that, especially when Harry’s method of getting in the way is by not being there or doing anything. 

Niall’s standing in the aisle ordering another round of drinks to be brought to their seats - the lap of luxury, honestly - and he doesn’t think. He checks his phone, and there it is. 

Blurry. Brown hair. Green eyes. Fairy lights slashed into the frame above him, all haloed where the camera didn’t focus right, like it was drunk too. 

_ If you’re not busy and wanted to say hello _

Accompanying the message is a screenshot of Harry’s VIP ticket, which puts him a brisk five-minute walk away. Niall’s making an excuse and heading over before he realizes what’s happening. 

In the end it’s nothing to write home about, but Christ, it’s good to see him. It’s good to stand further back with Harry’s arm close but not touching his, to watch the show together for a while. They don’t even say much to one another,  _ hello _ and  _ good to see you _ and  _ can you believe this? What a show. _

It’s what Niall had wanted before: to share the concert with someone who understood exactly why it was special. 

Harry leans slightly to the side, bumps Niall’s shoulder with his, and gives him a little halfway smile. It’s humiliating how Niall’s heart leaps, how all his careful distancing has crumbled like sand. How only Harry’s allowed to reach out and close the gap between them.

It’s because Niall wants too much, and once he starts letting himself ask for things they’ll all pour out of him until he turns inside out, becomes a sucking black hole of need. For Harry’s attention, his affection, his time… All those fickle things he’s got no right to. 

As if they’ve all planned it, his friends start texting him all at once asking where he’s gone off to. His phone vibrates so much he thinks it’s a call at first, and when he gets it out to look he sees just how long he’s been standing over here, breathing all Harry’s air and taking up his space and trying to absorb him. 

He shakes Harry’s hand - a bright and startling motion that sobers him considerably - and finds his way back to his seat. 

-

Niall watches the rest of the show with his friends. He finds Don afterward and hugs him hello, says hi to the rest of the band, drinks a beer and chases it with a tall glass of champagne. It’s a party, after all. 

And when he goes home, if he’s sad to be going alone, well… He’s polite to his driver, a bloke he doesn’t know as well as Bas, who has the night off, and when he gets back to his empty house he stumbles around turning the lights on and off, trying to create the appropriate mood lighting for the sort of wistful melancholy drunk he can feel barrelling towards him. 

_ Are you still awake?  _

It’s Niall’s phone, which has materialized in his hand despite intention to let it charge on the kitchen island and not present itself for bad decisions like this one. Beside the message is Harry’s messy, drunk face from five years ago. 

He wonders if Harry is messy and drunk now. 

He wonders what sorts of mistakes Harry might be willing to make, if he’s texting Niall at half three in the fucking morning after months of radio silence. 

_ not for long i hope,  _ Niall texts back. 

_ I’m around the corner - can I come over?  _

Instead of answering Niall rings him. 

“I’ve changed the gate code since last time you were here,” he says, and reads it out off the post-it on his fridge. Against his best judgment he adds, “Are you alright?” 

“Course,” Harry says easily. “Be there soon.” 

And then he’s gone, and Niall is left waiting in the strange half-light with his carefully cuffed shirtsleeves wilting. 

Harry lets himself in without knocking a few minutes later. He’s brought a bottle of dry reisling in a paper sleeve, and he busies himself taking glasses down from the rack by the sink, locating a corkscrew, pouring two glasses. Niall watches him. He wonders if he should say “I was just going to bed,” or if he should take the bottle out of Harry’s hands and put it aside so he can push him back against the counter and… And what? 

Harry hands him a glass. Niall thinks about dropping it and watching it smash on the tile and leaving the mess, pressing Harry against the fridge, kissing him. 

Harry clinks the rim of his glass against Niall’s and Niall thinks about getting so drunk he’d say something reckless, something he means. 

They talk about the show and the whole time Niall’s watching Harry’s mouth, furious that when he bothers to come back into Niall’s life it’s like he never disappeared in the first place. 

And then Harry’s setting his glass aside and stepping into Niall’s space, putting a hand on his shoulder and another on his waist and gazing at him. 

“It’s alright, yeah?” he says, and Niall can smell his breath. Cinnamon chewing gum under the sharp aftertaste of the wine. “Nialler?” 

They kiss leant up against the kitchen counter like two people with a long and storied history, who have no need to try to impress each other in the moment. That’s what they are, Niall supposes, as he parts his lips against Harry’s and shuts his eyes. It’s always been like this, sharing some enchanted evening that leaves Niall hollowed out around the memory of it when Harry’s gone. 

When they get together like this Niall enjoys it; he loves it. He likes the way Harry manhandles him back to the bedroom, grinning into the kiss so their teeth clack and they both wince and laugh. He likes it when Harry sheds his jacket and makes a point of hanging it up because he knows Niall will complain if he throws it somewhere he won’t be able to find it the next morning. Harry raises his eyebrows at Niall while he zips the jacket up on one of Niall’s nice cedar coat hangers. It shouldn’t be erotic but it is, to him.

He loves what they do together, but it hurts sometimes. Harry knelt up on the bed tugging Niall’s jeans off for him. Harry stripping out of his crisp button-down shirt and looming over Niall in an undershirt and his idiotic wide-leg trousers. Niall should make a joke or something, let some air out of the balloon so it’s not so close to bursting. He can’t make himself do it - something’s stolen all the words from him in the moment. 

It’s the way that Harry puts his lips to the scar on Niall’s knee. The way he remembers to be cautious with the other leg because it’s still fragile after SoccerAid. How he presses his cheek against Niall’s chest for a moment to feel his heartbeat and pulls back and says, “Look at you,” with genuine reverence like they’re not the people they are, like they’re just two people who love one another. 

When Harry’s loving him, he’s never felt more completely loved. 

Afterwards, when Harry’s gone, he’ll feel more alone than he ever has. 

Harry’s got his big, stupid mouth on Niall’s neck, his hand on Niall’s prick, he’s panting and saying the right things and  _ meaning  _ them, things like,  _ I love when we do this,  _ and  _ I wish you could see yourself right now… How beautiful you are.  _ Harry rolls them so they’re on their sides facing one another, legs all tangled up. Harry makes a lot of eye contact as he gets the rest of their clothes off, as he’s reaching over Niall for the drawer in the bedside table where he knows Niall keeps his condoms, as he’s doing things with his mouth and hands that they probably won’t talk about in the morning. 

“I love to make you fall apart,” Harry says in Niall’s ear. They’re both breathing hard already, Niall’s good leg hooked over Harry’s arm while they move together, slow. 

It’s stupid to want to  _ be with Harry,  _ like in a real relationship sense - on account of their public jobs and the scandal it would cause, yeah, but more than that because Niall knows Harry, knows he’s a shit boyfriend. He’s there and then gone and then there again and he always thinks things will be just as he left them. It doesn’t matter if he’s in love, properly serious, or if he’s fucking around with a mate, he just doesn’t  _ think.  _

And Niall doesn’t want a boyfriend, anyway. Or a girlfriend. Niall is lousy at relationships, he always fools himself into thinking he wants one and the second it happens he starts building escape hatches, just in case. The only reason this occasionally hooking up with Harry thing has lasted as long as it has is because neither of them are trying to make it something it isn’t. There’s nothing there to smother him or cage him in. 

But thinking about your own relationship anxiety is rude when somebody’s fucking you, especially when it’s Harry putting in some of his best work, chanting filthy things against Niall’s neck as he moves in him. 

Afterwards Harry sucks him off fast and dirty, clutching Niall’s thighs hard with both big hands, eyes shut, cheeks hollowed out when he takes him in. Niall tries to sit up on his elbows to watch, self-conscious of the little fold across his stomach when he does, but then Harry does something clever with his tongue and Niall has to collapse back into the pillows and let the feeling of it send him somewhere else. 

-

“You’re not seeing anybody right now?” Harry asks. It’s the sort of unsexy, unromantic pillowtalk at which Harry excels. He likes to talk business sometimes - which producers they’re both talking to for their next projects, which session musicians are any good - or talk about whatever horrible cleanse he’s on and what it’s done for his skin, or - 

“No, no,” Niall says. “I thought - but I had so much going on, I couldn’t really sustain it. Didn’t seem fair to her. You?” 

“Nah,” Harry says, and smiles. “It’s good, though - lets me come see you like this.” 

_ You could come see me like this all the time,  _ Niall wants to say.  _ If you wanted to, if you liked it, if - if - if -  _

“Mmhmm,” he says instead, and gets up to find his clothes. “There’s perks to being single, pringle.” 

Harry watches Niall get dressed, a fresh pair of pants, a clean t-shirt. He’s trying to decide if he should put the jeans he was wearing earlier back on or find some pajamas. It’s hard to think when Harry’s right there existing and breathing and thinking God knows what. 

“You’re always setting yourself up to get hurt,” Harry says, lounging back into the pillows. 

“What?” Niall asks. He opts for the jeans because they seem less like he’s inviting Harry to sleep over - a point rendered mostly moot by new morning already glowing outside. 

“You know. You set these obstacle courses for your girlfriends, like you’re always testing them, daring them to prove they won’t leave,” Harry says. “With your ‘my career gets in the way and it’s not fair’ or your ‘I have to have knee surgery so we should just break up now.’”  

Harry stands up, distracting and naked, and stretches his entire long body out. The yellow lamplight from the bedside table fights against the lavender dawn coming in the window, painting Harry in impressionist tones. 

“I don’t know why you’re not more like… The way you are with me, for example,” Harry says. “Like, just let yourself see what happens once in awhile, without trying to run.” 

Niall sighs. “A girlfriend is different than this,” he says. 

“Is it?” Harry asks. “We have fun, don’t we? It’s like… all the beginning parts without all the boring stuff that happens later on.”

Niall doesn’t know how to say that the boring parts are what he  _ wants,  _ so badly he’s afraid of getting to them. Like if he ever gets past the honeymoon stage he’ll fuck it all up, and it’ll be worse, because it’ll actually mean something. 

“Do you have a point, Harry?” Niall asks. He’s tired. The buzz from the party and the wine is already turning into a premature hangover. 

“I just don’t want you to be, you know, the architect of your own misery,” Harry says. It’s a joke, Niall knows, he’s just… It’s hard for him to be funny right now. 

Niall finally finds his belt where Harry tossed it last night, half-underneath the bed, and puts it on. “Yeah, well Jesus was a cross maker,” he says.

The only reason it doesn’t turn into a full-on argument is that neither of them cares enough to make it one. Or maybe both of them do, they’re just too stubborn, too dug into this same rut they’re always driving together to change course. Niall doesn’t know. 

Harry does get dressed eventually, and follows Niall downstairs where they make coffee together and each sort out the texts they’ve missed, the obligations they have for the day. Niall, intelligently, has made sure not to schedule anything until late afternoon. Harry has a breakfast meeting in two hours time. 

“Sucks t’be you,” Niall says, laughing. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry says. “But I’ve calibrated my internal clock so like, even if I  _ tried  _ to go to sleep I’d still be up by eight, so it’s not like it’s a real loss.” 

“You keep telling yourself that,” Niall says. 

And then Harry is at his door, hugging him goodbye, leaning back in his arms to kiss him softly, like there isn’t daylight streaming through the windows and an entire world waking up out there. Like whatever they do together has a place outside of the narrow space between midnight and morning. 

Niall shuts the door behind Harry and watches him stroll down the path, out the gate, make a turn that’ll get him to a busier road. Someplace he can catch a taxi back to his real life. 

Niall washes his own coffee cup and sets it to dry. He thinks about leaving Harry’s on the counter as a reminder that he was there. He thinks about lifting the cup and putting his own mouth to the place where Harry’s was. He thinks about taking a picture of it and texting it to Harry -  _ so rude, never even do your own washing up ! -  _ and letting it go unanswered, the last thing in their text thread, a stark reminder that not long ago they were together, of what they did together. 

Instead Niall puts the mug in the sinkful of soapy water and scrubs it out, and scrubs it out again, and rinses it under the hottest water his tap will produce. 

He goes back to bed, the sheets still smelling of Harry, and wills himself to fall asleep. He doesn’t have anywhere to be, after all. 

And if he shows up to his late lunch meeting with bags under his eyes, well. That’s fine. They can comment, can joke about his late night, and it won’t bother him. Nothing bothers Niall. 

**Author's Note:**

> [come say hi on tumblr](http://warpedtourniall.tumblr.com)


End file.
